By Raffique Shah
March 01, 2025

Where friendships are concerned, one friend, when he passes, will have all the others at his funeral, and one friend will have none of his friends at his funeral. In my circle, we are slowly but inevitably getting to the latter part of that statement.

I still cannot imagine Rex Lassalle dead. He is indestructible.

Rex and I go back to 1965 when we attended Sandhurst. We were the two principal officers involved in the 1970 mutiny. He and I shared a kind of camaraderie that was uncommon. We were romantic revolutionaries of an era long gone. A breed of people who no longer exist in this world. We idolised the likes of Castro, Che, Yasser Arafat, Nelson Mandela, and the many men and women who had fought for freedom, putting their lives on the line for a cause, for their country.

Rex must have been one of the fittest, healthiest persons I have known. He had pursued holistic health with a passion and with personal intervention. He made a profession out of fitness and good health. When we emerged from prison after 27 months, having won our appeals against the convictions and sentences imposed on us by a Commonwealth Court Martial, and having been kicked out of the army by the senior officers we had locked up in the mutiny, we sought other options of earning a living. Among the many ideals of making a career out of the military is that one must be fit. Rex and I, and most of our brother officers, led by example.

When we entered Sandhurst in 1964, we underwent a series of physical fitness tests that a soldier must pass every year if he is to remain in the military. Many commissioned officers could not be bothered with the tests or the standards. We differed with them and insisted that the standard nine-mile march and 800m swim in full kit be held every year and at every rank. The junior officers insisted on holding these standards that the British armies set. We therefore had the vocal support from the other ranks: if we asked our men to do something challenging, we ought to be able to achieve the set standards.

Rex was upfront and centre when we took on our seniors in trying to achieve model soldiers. Skilled and fit. Smart and bright. A virtual abandonment of these standards by the very senior officers was partly responsible for a tragic decline in the quality of soldiers and eventually led to the mutiny. In the two years we spent at the Port of Spain prison, we never allowed our fitness to wane and when we reverted to being civilians, our fitness levels remained high. But Rex always wanted even higher standards. He and the other “Young Turks” wanted to build the best army in these parts but the seniors would settle for ordinary.

As soon as we had settled in prison, the 80-odd men who were with us set about functioning as a prisoners-of-war unit. All of the above show why we were damn good soldiers and successful in keeping our men motivated, disciplined and battle-ready.

Out of prison, having won a seemingly unwinnable mutiny trial, Rex travelled to Ireland where he attended training courses that made him a master of alternative medicine. He also explored using massage therapies for healing. He was so good at this that his patients would refer to him as “the man with the healing hands”.

As the years rolled by, I would see less and less of Rex. He had become a kind of roving citizen of Trinidad and Tobago, and other countries where he felt comfortable in his practice. When he was 70 or so, the last time I saw him in the flesh (circa 2015), he had hardly aged and still managed to move with grace and authority.

I last spoke with Rex some months ago when he had considered holding a seminar-type conference that would highlight the events of 1970. He had never done that before and the thinking was that a large body of citizens who have only the skimpiest information on the Youth Revolution of 1970 would appreciate how much was done to change the world to a better place.

Rex and I also shared a lifelong appreciation of music. He was heavy into jazz and we both promoted calypso and pan, our cultural heritage.

I’d like to also note that Lennox Crowe, a younger private in the mutiny, also passed away last week. Lennox remained a revolutionary all his life. He was loyal to his country and his comrades. A great friend and an even better man.

Most applicable now is ABBA’s “Fernando”, in which they sing: “Though I never thought that we could lose, there’s no regret, If I had to do the same again, I would my friends.”

A true revolutionary is guided by great feelings of love…Che Guevara.